


The Pale Horse

by halyo



Series: A Town Called San Adrestia [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Western, Feral Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Murder Mystery, Non-Explicit Sex, Period-Typical Sexism, y'all only get the 'e' rating because sylvain is a horny piece of shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:16:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26884990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halyo/pseuds/halyo
Summary: Faerghus County, New Mexico1876Sylvain's brother is found dead with a bullet in his back. In three days' time, Ashe Ubert will hang for his murder.When a note is pushed under the stable door, though, it throws everything Sylvain knows into doubt. With only a handful of words to guide him, he has three days to find the real killer and bring him to justice, or an innocent man goes to his death. But Felix is keeping secrets, and the clock is ticking...Western AU with a side of whodunnit and a good helping of Sylvix.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: A Town Called San Adrestia [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712188
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	The Pale Horse

> _Behold, a pale horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death._  
>  \- Revelation 6:7–8

Faerghus County, New Mexico

June 1876

Sylvain is in the stables when the sheriff breaks the news.

He’d spent the afternoon breaking in half a dozen feral mustangs they’d rounded up a few days ago. The animals were unruly and stubborn, and this small herd was no exception. Sylvain had gone straight for the matriarch of the group, a tall, proud mare with a wild look in her eyes. He’d spent most of today picking himself up off the dusty ground, but eventually he’d slipped a guide rope around her nose and a saddle on her back. And once he’d wrangled her under his control, the others had succumbed easily enough to his charms.

There was only one filly he couldn’t tame. Most were cautious at first, but once he’d shown them there was nothing to be afraid of, they were eating out of the palm of his hand. But no matter how hard he tried, there was no way this one was letting him get atop her.

No, Ingrid was going to take a _lot_ of breaking in. And as much as he’d like to take her and roll in the hay like an animal, she was having none of it.

She brushes past him dismissively, hauling her tack onto its stand and swapping it for a curry comb. Her horse snorts impatiently in the background, stamping at the ground.

Ingrid had taken well to the gap that Miklan had left in the family business: she was a natural with the horses, and easy on the eye to boot. Even after slicing all that beautiful blonde hair off and dressing in a man’s attire, she was still a sight to behold. They'd grown up so much since they were kids, and womanhood had worked wonders on her body. He’d propositioned her plenty of times, all of which had ended the same way. So for now, he figures, he’s better off giving her space until she’s warmed up to him a little more. They’ve spent the last year or so working the ranch together, driving cattle and tending to the land and rounding up wild horses in the off-season.

Sylvain would much rather put her to a different kind of work.

“Any plans for tonight?” he asks, sidling up behind her as she grooms her horse after a long day's work. Ingrid sighs, looking up at him with a scowl.

“Nothing you need to know about,” she says, defensive. “Can’t you go _one_ day without trying to lift my skirts?”

“Far as I can see, you ain’t wearing no skirts,” he replies, sending her a wink and a dazzling smile. “Them leggings do look awful tight, though. Perhaps I could loosen them up for you.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort.”

“Oh, come now Ingrid,” he says, leaning into the doorjamb to watch her work. “That ain’t no way to talk to a friend, is it now?”

Ingrid huffs, turning her attention back to the horse. The late-afternoon light peeks in between the slats in the barn, setting the world alight around her. She flicks her hair from her face. “Don’t get cocky, Gautier. Just 'cause we were close as kids, don't mean I'm into you. I wouldn’t be so quick to call us ‘friends’.”

“You want to go a step further than friends? All you gotta do is say the word.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

She sends him a dark look that could strip paint, and Sylvain knows when he’s beaten. He nods, blows her a kiss, then slouches back to deal with his own horse. The animal stares expectantly at him, as if asking why he’s busy skirt-chasing while leaving his horse waiting.

“Don’t you give me that look,” he warns, talking partly to himself and partly to the horse. It’s nice to have a little bit of company, even if _this_ wide-eyed filly can’t answer back. “God gave her those good looks," he complains. "Least she can do is flirt back.”

The horse snorts in disapproval, and Sylvain gives in for today. He's not one for throwing in the towel, but he knows when to cut his losses. Sooner or later Ingrid will fall for his charms. And when that day comes, he'll be ready.

He and Ingrid stand and work the horses in silence for a while. Sylvain goes through the motions, checking each piece of tack in turn, then lifting the animal's hooves to check for stones or damage. Thankfully, there's little for him to do, and it isn't long before he's hauling his tack onto the stand and locking the horse in for the night. It's not late, but he's been up since the crack of dawn, and right now he could do with a good dash of whiskey and the company of a pretty girl down the saloon.

Before he can lock up for the night, a letter catches his eye, an envelope that's been slid under the door. The paper is pristine white, expensive enough to be from an office. Sylvain whistles to himself, picking up the envelope and looking it over. It’s got his name written on the front, but as he goes to open it there’s a knock on the stable door. 

“One minute!” he calls, then drops the letter on a shelf with the rest of his supplies. He heads back to the door, pulling it open. 

And just like that, the letter is forgotten.

Sylvain has had plenty of surprise calls, but this one is far from a welcome sight.

The sheriff and his deputy made for an intimidating pair. Faerghus County was known for its hostility to foreigners, and much of that came from its lawmen. Dimitri was a fearsome sheriff, half-feral and ruthless, his good looks and easy charm buried underneath the madness that had descended the day his eye was torn from his skull. He took no mercy and replied to violence with violence alone. Any crime more serious than thieving was met with the noose.

At his side, Dedue was intimidating at the best of times, no matter how gentle he was deep down. Few could rein Dimitri in, but Dedue had risen to the challenge more than any man in the town. He made a fine deputy, and did most of the sheriff’s shooting for him. It was kinder that way. Left alone, Dimitri would likely tear a man apart with his bare hands.

And now they’re standing at the entrance to the stable. Just their presence there makes Sylvain nervous. For all the youth they'd spent together, Dimitri didn’t do social calls anymore. No, this is bad news, the kind that has to be broken in person.

Sylvain’s heart sinks at the sight.

“Sheriff,” he says cautiously, touching the brim of his hat in greeting. “Deputy. Pleasure to see you both. What can I be doing for you this fine evening?”

“Sit,” Dimitri spits, barely allowing Sylvain to finish. Dedue takes the kinder option, pulling up a crate and gesturing for Sylvain to sit down.

"Please," Dedue says. His expression is the same serious mask it always is, but there's a forced softness in his voice, the sort that doesn't bode well at all.

And a second later, Sylvain realises why.

Everything after _‘we found a body out in the wastes’_ is a blur.

He doesn’t hear the details of how Miklan was murdered, nor does he hear exactly where it happened. It feels like the sky has come crashing down around them, like he’d taken a shot to the chest and been buried in the desert sand. Dedue's words all roll together into one, a formless jumble of speech that means nothing at all to Sylvain.

“I understand--” he says numbly, his mind still reeling. Death was never far away out on the frontier. He should have known this day would come. But hell, that didn't stop it hurting like a bitch.

Someone is calling his name.

Sylvain shakes his head, then nods, then shakes his head again. He brushes Dedue’s hand from his shoulder, dismissive. Unlike most of the town, Sylvain had no problem with the few remaining Duscur-men. But he doesn’t want their condolences. No, he wants answers, and he wants them now.

“When?” he asks, trying to hold the tremor in his words back. “When did he die?”

Dedue’s voice is soft. “Sometime in the early hours of the morning. I assure you, it was quick. Miklan did not suffer.”

“I don’t care,” Sylvain replies. Frustration starts to build inside him, and he staggers to his feet again. He clenches his hands into fists at his side. “I want to know who killed him.”

Dimitri and Dedue share a look, something unspoken passing between them. “We have a lead,” Dimitri says eventually, far too calmly for Sylvain’s liking. He waits for a moment for Dimitri to spill any sort of details, but the sheriff says nothing at all. Sylvain lets out a shaky breath from behind his teeth.

“Who?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. That anger inches into his voice like venom. “Who killed my brother?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dimitri spits. The shadows under his eyes darken his expression, making him look more animal than man. “We’ve got a lead," he says again. "Justice will be served.”

Sylvain takes a step back. He tries to ease the tension in his clenched jaw, but it doesn’t do much to help. “You’d better get your man, sheriff.”

“I intend to.” 

“If there is anything we can do--" Dedue adds, but Sylvain dismisses him before he can finish.

"Go," he says sternly. "Tell my family. I'll be fine. Don't come back."

Dimitri leaves without a second glance, but Dedue looks back and nods, as if he's trying to say something. Whatever it is, it's lost on Sylvain. Around him, the horses huff and whinny to each other, the last of the stable hands call it quits for the night, and even the stray dogs slink away. It leaves Sylvain alone with his thoughts, the old memories rising to the surface after all those years swept aside. Twice he feels emotion rise in his throat. Only once does he have to blink back tears.

Sylvain sits in the stables until the ache has faded and the sun has gone down.

There was little else to do in this small town bar drowning one’s sorrows at the bottom of a bottle, and like most others of legal age and a certain disposition, Sylvain ends the night in the saloon. He needs a stiff drink and good company now more than ever. A pretty little distraction would do him just fine.

 _The Blue Lion_ opened its doors to all, even disgraced ranchers with a reputation for stealing the young women of the town away and taking what by right belonged to their husbands-to-be. It was a little game he played with himself, and he was _very_ good at it. He’s been chased from the bar by an irate father or scorned fiancé more times than he could care to count. More than once he’d stared down the wrong end of a gun. But he keeps coming back to the saloon, the dingy little watering hole where the whiskey came cheap and the pretty girls came easy enough after a couple of drinks.

The boys came easy, too, but he kept that dirty little secret to himself. 

Light spills out through the dirty windows, flickering ever so slightly. There’s no music tonight, just the chatter of the patrons, near sixty voices overlapping each other in a low murmur. Sylvain pushes the saloon doors wide open, standing in the doorway with his arms out. The familiar space helps to settle his nerves, the smell of gunpowder and cigarettes. He grins at the girl behind the bar, who rolls her eyes at the sight of him. There are ladies upstairs more than willing to give him a hand should he desire, prostitutes only interested in him for the dollars in his pocket. No, he preferred to work for his reward. The chase was half the fun of it.

He looks over the saloon again, skimming the faces before letting the doors swing shut behind him and stepping into the fug of tobacco smoke and noise. There are a few newcomers travelling through the county, and a pair of wealthy young women hiding behind their fans. “Oh, that’ll do just fine,” he purrs to himself, pulling off his hat and running a hand through his hair.

As he walks up to the bar, he whistles a song to try and attract their gaze. Sure enough, he can feel their eyes on him, and he sends a sly glance over his shoulder to watch the women in his peripheral vision. Both maybe twenty-five years old, both gorgeous, both wearing wedding rings. He wouldn’t mind taking either of them while their husbands looked the other way. Which begged the question: blonde or brunette?

In an ideal world, he’d take both.

He signals for the girl behind the bar as he approaches. Tonight, as every night, Sylvain is looking for attention - whether that’s a fuck or a fight, he’s not too bothered either way. And judging by the man sat at the bar with a face like thunder, he might just find both in this dingy little small-town saloon.

He sneaks one last glance over at the ladies before making his approach. He lets his spurs jangle as he walks, his boots letting out a harsh _tap-tap-tap_ against the wooden floor _._ It’s more for his own good than anyone else’s. Not many tried to sneak up on Felix Fraldarius and lived to tell the tale. 

The man had the fastest quickdraw this side of the border, and the attitude to match. 

Night shift workers always tended to be antisocial and with little regard for human interaction, and Felix fit his job description to a tee. Even in the brightest sunlight he always seemed to be in shadow. He’d been that way since the death of his own brother near ten years ago, and no amount of drink could change that. Hell, even the kiss of a pretty woman meant nothing to him.

Not that the kiss of a pretty _man_ did much for him either, but that doesn’t mean Sylvain refuses to try.

“What’s that face for?” he asks, sliding into the seat next to Felix and ordering a double measure each. Felix grunts in reply, scowling into the countertop with a glare that could cut steel. Sylvain clears his throat, trying to draw attention. “You picking up ladies too? Plenty of ‘em to choose from.”

“Is it too much to ask that you think with your brain and not your prick?”

“Good evening to you too, Felix. You wound me.” It’s nothing that Sylvain hasn’t heard before. The bartender passes his drinks over, and Sylvain slides her a couple of coins and a blown kiss in payment. After a good first sip of whiskey, he looks Felix over, curious. “Ain’t you s’posed to be working this time of night? Or are you looking for love?”

“S’posed to,” Felix mocks. “But I ain’t. And I got better things to do than waste my time with harlots like these.”

The barmaid finishes the last of the bottle for herself. Sylvain tries to introduce Felix, but neither of them are having any of it. And once the barmaid has made her refusal very clear and moved onto her less eager clients, it leaves the two men sitting in strained silence for far too long. They sip at their drinks, but there's little to say.

“I’m sorry about Miklan,” Felix says eventually, then drains his glass. He calls to the barmaid for another drink, then gestures to Sylvain as if to say _‘he’s paying’._

“News travels fast, huh?” Sylvain replies, staring at the bottles behind the bar. It almost doesn’t seem real to him, the news still not quite sinking in. The anger has settled for the moment, replaced with a strange, hollow feeling that might well be regret. For all his multitude of sins, Miklan was still his brother. Sylvain shakes his head. “Don't be sorry. Ain’t nothing you coulda done--”

He cuts himself off.

“No,” Sylvain realises, talking it through. “You worked the night shift at the bank last night, right? You woulda been around. In fact, you woulda been the only one awake in this little dustbowl town. Dedue said they killed him early this morning. If anyone knows what happened to my brother, you do.”

Felix’s ever-present scowl deepens a little further. “Only reason I’m off work,” he admits. “The sheriff and his dog wanted answers.”

Sylvain presses his lips together. Nausea shifts in his stomach. “And _did_ you see something?”

“Nothing.”

The barmaid fetches Felix a second glass of cheap whiskey. Wordlessly, Sylvain hands her another fifty cents and a handsome tip, then pushes the drink back over to Felix. Hopefully a little moonshine should loosen him up a bit. “Nothing?” Sylvain asks, still pushing.

Felix nods in affirmation. “Nothing. And it ain’t none of your business, neither.”

“He’s my brother, Felix. Reckon that makes it my business--”

Once again, Sylvain’s voice trails away. The word he’s looking for is ‘was’. Miklan _was_ his brother. No longer.

“You _did_ see something, didn’t you?”

Felix scowls. He takes a long sip of his drink, then fishes into his pockets for a cigarette and a box of matches. ”I’m done here,” he says, sliding off the barstool. Distracted, he picks up his glass, drains it, and grimaces at the taste. He exhales sharply out of his nose, and Sylvain can see he’s only just holding back the cough.

“The hooch a little too strong for you?” Sylvain teases, and Felix just scowls in reply.

“I need a cigarette,” he mutters, dusting down his waistcoat before making a beeline for the exit. Sylvain scurries to follow him, leaving half a glass still unfinished on the bar.

“Felix!” he calls, brushing past the two women without a second glance. “Hey, Felix, you can’t--”

"Yeah," Felix replies, slamming the door open, "I can."

It's not cold outside - they're setting in for another long, hot summer. But without the sun, the wind has a chill to it, and Sylvain regrets his decision not to bring a jacket. He settles for catching up with Felix. Hopefully a bit of movement will warm him up a bit.

"What did you see?" Sylvain asks, falling into step with Felix. The second he does, Felix stops dead in his tracks, pulling a match from the box. "Hey," Sylvain says, pushing back the frustration. "The fuck is your problem--"

By way of reply, Felix frowns and puts his cigarette between his teeth. He reaches up to Sylvain's face, before striking the match across the red-brown stubble and summoning a flame in his fingertips. Felix lights his cigarette, then shakes the match out.

"I saw the boar out chasing ghosts again," he replies, starting to work through the tobacco. He starts to walk again, slower than before. But he won't meet Sylvain's eye. No, Felix isn't telling the whole truth. Still, he shrugs as he elaborates on his story, lips pulled up into a sneer. "Same as always. Growling to himself like an animal, talking to people that ain't there. Don't know what he sees, and I don't much care. But he does it every night. The man ain't slept a full eight hours in years. That's all I saw."

Sylvain doesn't know if fully believes it. He doesn't know how to reply to that, either, so he says nothing. Over the last few years, Felix had made his disdain for Dimitri quite clear. Any friendship they had was long-gone. Slowly but surely, the four of them were drifting apart, and there was nothing any of them could do about it. Lost in thought, Felix stares out at the town, all closed up for the evening. “You look awful calm for someone that lost his brother,” he says eventually, breathing a jet of smoke into the night.

“I lost Miklan years ago,” Sylvain whispers, but he doesn’t get any further.

The grief rears again, filling his throat with sorrow. For once, Felix holds off for a moment, watching without a coarse word. If anyone understands, it’s him. Sylvain swallows the remorse back down, trying to bury it deep. Plenty of the memories he kept of his brother were awful beyond words. But Miklan’s death leaves a hole in Sylvain’s life - one he’ll likely never fill.

That’s exactly how it feels. A void in his chest, vast and empty. Sylvain figures the best thing he can do is ignore it and carry on. Mourning won’t bring his brother back. Nor will it make those memories any less bitter.

He spits into the dirt, as if casting out the taste. “He weren’t really my brother no more,” he adds, as if saying those things will make it hurt less. It does, for a moment. If he says it enough, he might just start believing it. And with every word, the feeling starts to subside - it doesn’t go away, but it simmers back down again, back to a level Sylvain can wrangle under control and suppress it for now. “He weren’t part of the family, that’s for sure. Last we saw of him, he was a monster. The wastes turned him into something else.”

Maybe not literally, but that scarfaced cattle rustler was a long way away from the proud rancher he’d once been. It was one hell of a fall from grace. Deep down, Sylvain had been glad to see him go, and not just because it meant they didn’t have to split the inheritance. No, when this prodigal son returned, he was shipped back to his parents in a box.

Sylvain shudders at the thought. 

“‘Sides,” he adds, “I can’t feel too sorry for him when he looked like _that._ ”

“You’re really that fickle?” Felix spits, dropping the cigarette butt and grinding it into the dirt with his boot.

Sylvain shrugs. He rests both his hands at the back of his neck, staring down the street and making a point not to look at Felix’s little tantrum. Sylvain already knows where this is going, even if Felix hasn’t quite clocked onto it yet. After a few seconds of silence, he clicks his tongue and sends a wink Felix’s way. “What can I say?” Sylvain asks, acting nonchalant. “I like pretty things. I’m real shallow like that.”

“Stating the obvious.”

“Besides, me and Miklan? We ain’t nothing like you and Glenn was. At least I’ll admit my brother was a piece of shit--”

Felix grabs Sylvain by the collar. Those dark eyes are narrowed and hostile. “Don’t you _dare_ speak ill of my brother,” Felix snarls, dragging Sylvain down to his level. It’s a good sign that he hasn’t pulled out the revolver at his hip. Not that Felix would hesitate to wring Sylvain’s neck then and there, but at least it’d be a fair fight.

Sylvain raises his hands. “Alright, cowboy. I'm getting a bit of frustration here. You mad at me or something?”

"'Course I'm mad," Felix spits. "And I shouldn't have to waste my breath explaining why."

"That anger ain't good for you," Sylvain replies, cool as he can. "Best to take it out on something. Or _someone_." He smiles, arms still out in surrender. "In fact, I know a way to vent that anger out that _don’t_ involve shooting. How'd that sound?"

On instinct, Felix's frown deepens again. He slides his feet back into a fighting stance. “You mean go a few rounds?” he asks, eyes still narrowed in suspicion.

Sylvain tilts his head to one side and lets a sly smile play through. He needs this as much as Felix does. If nothing else, it’ll take his mind off today. “Yeah, we can do that,” he says, looking Felix over. “My place or yours?”

“Yours.”

And that’s exactly where they go.

The walk out to the edge of town only takes five minutes, plenty of time for Felix to cool off and Sylvain to get himself worked up. They don’t speak much. Sylvain wants to keep his mind off his brother, and as always, Felix isn’t in the mood for talking. Around them, the town fades to the scrublands on the outskirts, the earth dry and dusty beneath their feet. The entrance to the family ranch is secluded enough that nobody is going to see them - not that Sylvain cares all that much. His thoughts to drift to far better things, the filthy little fantasies seared into his mind.

Whatever he’s thinking, Felix doesn’t seem to share his excitement. In fact, he’s more preoccupied with the cavalry sabre above the door than anything else, a relic that had fought in one of the bloodiest battles of the civil war. 

“That’s a confederate blade,” Felix observes, staring up at the blade. “Thought your father fought for the union.”

“He sure did. Pried that from the fingers of a confederate general at the Battle of the Tailtean Plains.” Sylvain rolls his eyes, resting a hand on Felix’s thigh. Trust Felix to care more about weaponry than matters of the heart. And sure enough, he’s wound tight as a wire, every muscle pulled tense. Sylvain lowers his voice to a whisper. “You know the story, right? How my old man forced his opponent onto his knees and made him beg for mercy. And my father ain’t the only one that knows how to handle a weapon.”

He watches the penny finally drop in Felix’s expression, as that ever-present scowl melts away. There it is: the moment when Felix realises that this isn’t a sparring session, but something a little more physical.

_Finally._

Felix takes a step back. He looks Sylvain over, cautious. “You mean--”

“Of course.” It’s not the first time they’ve done this - and if Sylvain has anything to say about it, this won’t be the last time, either.

"Oh," Felix replies, as unreadable as ever. That's all he manages to say, and Sylvain takes the opportunity to grab him by the arm and plant a rough, desperate kiss to Felix's lips. 

"You get what I mean _now?_ " he asks, and all Felix can do is nod. Right now, he's hushed into silence, but sooner or later he'll be rather more vocal.

They sneak out to the stables, where they can make as much noise as they like.

A horse whickers as they enter, but Sylvain doesn’t hear it. He barely has enough time to light a lamp to see by: the minute the door is shut behind them, Felix grabs Sylvain by the collar of his shirt again, pushing him back against the wall. Cold hands sneak up underneath his shirt, making short work of the buttons and almost tearing it open.

“Easy, cowboy,” Sylvain says, leaning in for a kiss as he helps Felix shed his outer layers. His efforts are quickly snubbed.

“Get on your knees,” Felix barks. He sneaks a hand up the back of Sylvain’s neck, grabbing him by the hair and dragging him down.

Sylvain resists for a second, just long enough to let out a quip. “So you like to take charge, huh--”

Felix hooks one foot around Sylvain’s leg, applying just enough pressure to the back of his knee to make his leg buckle and force him to the ground. The impact sends a shock running up Sylvain’s spine. “You know I do,” Felix hisses, already loosening his belt. “Now, I told you to get on your knees. I got no time for idle talk.”

“And if I bite?”

“I’ll bend you over and take you up the arse like a common whore.”

With a low sigh, Sylvain cranes his neck back to bare his throat. A shiver runs down his spine at the thought. “You’d do that for me?” he asks, only half-teasing. It’s tempting, so very tempting. They’ve never gotten _that_ far before. He hums under his breath, looking up at Felix with bright eyes. “I’d best keep talking, then.”

Felix snarls, pushing him back into the hay. “Fucking hell. You get off to that?”

“Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

“Disgusting.”

Sylvain can’t help himself. He grins, placing a hand on the inside of Felix’s thigh. “You were the one that suggested it--”

"Don't," Felix warns, pulling off his gun belt and hanging it from the hook on the wall. That's all he says, though, that scowl finally letting up for long enough to go in for another kiss, dropping down to the floor. One knee is pressed between Sylvain's legs, starting to tremble with anticipation. 

“Get on with it, yeah?” Sylvain says, pulling his belt off and sliding a hand down the front of his underwear. He’s in for a long night. Best make the most of it. “Fuck--” he says quietly, starting to touch himself up. "Middle shelf. There’s a tin.”

“A tin of what?” Felix asks, before something catches his attention and makes him fall silent. He gets to his feet and stands on his tiptoes to get a better look. “The hell is that?” he says, staring at the shelf in disbelief.

Sylvain grins. He can’t help the wink he sends Felix’s way, nor the flirtatious edge to his voice. “That stuff? They call it vaseline. Good for wounds. And saddle sores. And it makes for a fine lubricant--”

“I ain’t talking about that.” Felix is looking decidedly unaroused, instead staring at the envelope in his hand. “The hell is that?” he asks again. “A love letter?”

“Why do you care?” Sylvain asks, lying back in the hay and looking up at Felix with his best grin. He doesn’t particularly care what’s in that letter, and neither should Felix. It’s nothing that can’t wait until morning. He stretches one arm up behind his head, just to give Felix a taste of what he’s missing. His other hand is still firmly down his trousers. “You jealous?”

“Like I give a shit,” Felix replies, reading over the paper. He tosses the note at Sylvain’s feet. “But you’ve read this, right?”

He rolls his eyes, sitting up to retrieve the card. “What’s your damn problem--”

“Read it.”

The paper smells faintly of damp. It's difficult enough to read in the dim lamp-light, but after a second of squinting, the details come into focus. Emblazoned upon the card are ten words written in simple handwriting. It’s only two lines of text, but every word is worse than the last.

_‘Ashe Ubert is innocent. Tell nobody you received this letter.’_

Confused, Sylvain frowns at the card. Nothing about this makes any damn sense. He doesn’t know who this ‘Ashe’ is, nor does he know what crime the man has committed, or why the sender needs to remain anonymous--

The realisation hits him all at once. Dimitri’s words ring through his mind again.

_'We’ve got a lead. Justice will be served.’_

Sylvain has more questions than answers. He starts with the simplest. “Who the hell is Ashe Ubert?” he asks, and Felix shakes his head by way of explanation.

“Lightfingers.”

“The thief?”

“Yeah.”

The conversation comes to an abrupt halt. Any hope of getting further is quelled when Felix grabs his shirt, pulling it back over his head and tucking it neatly back into his trousers. He reaches for his gunbelt, strapping it back on, and just like that, any lingering remnants of Sylvain’s arousal die then and there. As much as it pains him to admit it, there are more important things than sex.

“Who left it?” Felix asks, and Sylvain just shakes his head. A creeping feeling of dread sneaks up his throat, and for all that he tries to push it back, grief seizes his heart and crushes it in a vice.

“Beats me,” he says, trying to keep it matter-of-fact. “I don’t know. Only newcomer ‘round here today was Dimitri to break the news. Ain’t nobody else know about it, not Ingrid, not the stable hands, not my ma and pa.”

Felix folds his arms. “You don’t know?”

“Not a clue.” 

“Shit.”

Sylvain stares at the letter again, mind racing. He turns the paper over and over in his hands, searching for clues. What the hell does all this mean? 

There’s only one way to find out.

“We need to talk to Ashe,” he decides.

And for once in his life, Felix agrees with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy folks!
> 
> First time really writing these two. If you've got any feedback - or concrit - please let me know! It'll make the next chapter come so much faster.
> 
> Want to know more about Ashe? Find out [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24377596)
> 
> See y'all soon 🤠


End file.
